A Harder Sell
by dusty violet
Summary: An extended/alternate/perhaps more realistic scene. Spoilers for Hard Sell.


**A/N: Like many of you, I really enjoyed this scene in "Hard Sell," but I found aspects of it hard to believe (we science-y people tend to be obsessed with accuracy). Here is my take on what **_**may**_** have realistically occurred. **

"Peter," he breathed. "I trust you." He pressed the mini-breather firmly into the agent's hands. There was no time to argue any further.

The two men began frantically searching the vault for the kill switch, spurred on by the knowledge that they only had five minutes – or less. Neal went straight for the back wall, roughly shoving the boxes of comic books aside on the shelves. Peter started checking the side wall where certain comics were hanging, highlighted in protective frames.

The sound of the vent cut off as the last of the oxygen was sucked from the sealed room. Unsatisfied with his fruitless search, Neal flew over to the adjacent wall and haphazardly slid the framed comics aside until he spotted it. Centered on the wall behind the framed comic books was the small black button that would save them.

"Peter!" he exclaimed, banging his fist against the wall to get the agent's attention when his voice failed to carry any volume.

Peter felt the vibration through the wall, and spun around to face his consultant. Neal urgently gestured to the kill switch with his hand, feeling like time was about to run out on him. His face contorted with a combination of insistence, discomfort, and a tinge of fear, wordlessly telling his partner what he needed to do. Not a moment later, he felt his body betray him by slumping gracelessly to the ground as he lost consciousness.

Instantly, Peter was on the other side of the room, palm positioned in midair over the round black button. He made eye contact with Avery, who raised the rifle at him through the bulletproof glass. Reed was standing next to him still, looking rather uncomfortable with the circumstances. The agent knew that time was running out for him; but more importantly, Neal didn't have any time left to spare either. He bent down and shook the con man's shoulder, but he was unresponsive. Praying his backup was on the way, Peter spat out the mini-breather and raised his gun to match Avery's weapon. He pressed the kill switch.

Just as the door drew up high enough for Peter to take the shot, four FBI agents rushed around the corner shouting orders. The senior agent could see that Jones and Cruz were among them, and he felt a small ripple of relief wash over him. Avery had surrendered.

Peter half-set, half-dropped his gun on the ground as he knelt beside his unconscious partner. He held his palm open over Neal's mouth and nose, hoping to feel a rush of warm breath on his hand, but it never came.

"Alright," he whispered to himself. "Come on, Neal." He placed his hands over the younger man's sternum. "Come on," he repeated. He gave Neal's breastbone a gentle nudge.

The consultant's head lifted up and his eyes fluttered open as he greedily inhaled a gulp of air. Peter felt his chest rising and falling under his hands as Neal panted for breath.

"Breathe," Peter instructed calmly as the con artist regained control of his lungs. The agent felt Neal's heart speed up under his palm as it attempted to pump oxygen-rich blood back into his brain.

"That was a long five minutes," the younger man said breathlessly as he continued to pant hard.

"Get a medic in here," Peter called to his agents. "You feel alright, Neal?" he asked, examining his eyes for any sign of pain or deceit.

"I'll be okay, Peter," the con man assured his handler. "I don't need the paramedics."

"Just let them check you out," the agent insisted. His hand remained firmly pressed against Neal's chest to keep him from sitting up too soon.

A team of two EMTs rushed into the vault with an oxygen tank and a whole slew of other equipment. Peter moved to the side so the first paramedic could place the oxygen mask over Neal's mouth and nose. Condensation appeared on the inside of the mask with every exhalation. The second medic clipped a pulse ox meter onto the consultant's finger. The device beeped rhythmically in time with Neal's heart rate, which was approaching normal again.

"How is he?" Peter asked the first medic.

"His oxygen saturation is still below normal," she answered.

"We'll keep the mask on him until the reading gets back into the mid nineties," the second medic added. Neal expressed his disapproval through a low groan.

Peter looked him straight in the eyes. "Would you rather I let you suffocate?" he retorted.

Neal rolled his head side-to-side on the floor in disagreement. He pulled the oxygen mask down off his face so he could speak. "Help me up," he directed. The agent eased his hand beneath the younger man's shoulder and lifted slowly until he was sitting upright against the wall.

"Keep the mask on, Neal," Peter ordered. The con man rolled his eyes, but complied. The second paramedic was checking his breathing with a stethoscope, so he was unable to give a proper verbal retort, for which the agent was grateful.

"Clear and equal," the medic informed his partner.

"Good," she replied. She checked the device on Neal's finger. "Heart rate is 64. Pulse ox is 92."

"Almost there," her partner commented. "Just take it easy for a few more minutes, sir," he instructed. Neal nodded in understanding.

"Your partner should be perfectly fine in a little while," the first medic assured Peter. Neal shot an I-told-you-so glance at his handler, who couldn't fight back a grin.

Jones and Cruz entered the vault after the criminals had been apprehended. They were slightly startled by the sight of their coworker with assorted medical equipment attached to his body. "Is he…?" Cruz asked.

"He's fine," Peter answered. "Just waiting for his oxygen level to come back up."

"He didn't use the mini-breather," Jones stated, rather than asked.

"He insisted I take it," Peter replied.

"And he passed out?" Cruz inquired. She shook her head lightly.

"I'm right here, guys," Neal said, voice muffled behind the oxygen mask. He raised his eyebrows expressively.

The pulse ox meter trilled to indicate it had reached a normal level. Neal removed the oxygen mask and set it on the floor next to him while one of the paramedics unclipped the device from his finger. "You're free to go when you feel ready," the other medic assessed. "Don't stand up too fast, though."

Neal extended his hands and Peter and Jones lifted him carefully onto his feet, stabilizing him on either side when he was fully upright. "It's a beautiful day," he began. "Let's get some fresh air."

That was Peter's cue to follow his consultant outside. In the spirit of trust, the agent had some details he needed to share with him. He was just relieved, after that last stunt, to have the opportunity to do so at all. They sat down on the porch and let the view engulf them before Peter broke the silence.

"What you did in there…" he began.

"Oh, I knew you'd take care of it," Neal replied quickly, rubbing his eyes.

"You're crazier than I am," Peter responded. They both laughed.

"You got my back, right?" Neal asked.

_You bet_, thought Peter. _Every time_.


End file.
